skin stained in battle scars,
as if lightning bolts
burnt across the sky;
bent and broken
over and over again,
bruised by a ghost,
out of balance,
hellfire humanized,
winter with a summer sky.
wars against myself
fought within the confines of my flesh,
countless fronts,
searing pain,
no cease-fire in sight.
i am the cost of war,
shattered by shrapnel and gunfire,
nerves alight,
nothing connecting right,
slipping from their places
and making their own design
even though I never asked for it to change.
i liked the pattern,
just the way it was.
if i could tell the world
one thing:
i am not too young.
my body betrays me
whether i am 17
or 70,
whether i am 20
or 85.
i remember nothing
not marred by suffering.
i do not recall
a life without pain.
i go to sleep at night
terrified,
because i know
this will never end
until i am nothing
but ash and stardust.
they say we come from the stars.
when i return to them,
only then
will i be free.
YOU ARE READING
enigma
Poetrypoems that attempt to provide an insight into the enigma that is my mind as I splinter myself between realities, trying to make sense of the world around me -- I write of all my feelings, all my thoughts. Everything I experience and suffer, everythi...
